


The Blade Itself

by trinityofone



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Don't Try This at Home, F/M, Magical Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:12:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What mattered was that Emma’s hand, and Emma’s hand alone, held the knife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blade Itself

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to siriaeve for betaing (and just in general).

The girl could barely walk on her own. Emma wrapped an arm around her back, took her by the shoulder. The girl ducked her head, blinking rapidly as she stepped into the light. Her eyes began to water, tears tracking down her dirty cheeks. Emma bit her lip: cold fury mixed with a hot heave of relief. She kept both emotions to herself.

She tried to contain her urgency, too, whispering reassurances as she lead the girl, brisk but steady, down the cold concrete corridor and out through the ventilation shaft, the way the janitor had shown her. The girl’s breath was ragged and hot on her throat as they slip-slided along the runoff ditch at the edge of the woods. Once they were safely hidden by the trees, Emma paused, reassessed. She hadn’t thought much beyond this: find out about a girl cruelly and illegally imprisoned, get her _out_. In the real world, Emma thought, she’d be able to take the girl to a hospital, deliver her safely to the police. But this was Storybrooke, where somehow _she_ was the closest thing they had to proper law enforcement, and the hospital was the place she had to rescue innocent victims _from_.

The girl was still shaking against her side. Emma disentangled them enough to slip off her own coat; she helped the girl drape it around her shoulders. “Thank you,” the girl whispered: her first coherent words, steadier than Emma would have imagined, accented.

Emma shook away the gratitude; she didn’t feel like she deserved thanks when she was still part of a world where things like this could be allowed to happen. Instead, a promise: “It’s going to be okay. You’re safe now.”

The look the girl gave her was wide-eyed, and more than slightly disbelieving. 

“I’m going to take you somewhere safe,” Emma amended, though she really couldn’t think where. Regina had eyes everywhere. And though she (as usual) had no proof, this had Regina’s stink all over it. Emma looked at the skinny, ratty-haired girl huddling beneath her leather jacket and felt a stab of guilt even as she asked, “Can you tell me who did this to you?” 

The girl looked up at her, bright blue eyes. “No,” she said. “But I can show you.” 

***

Emma’s stomach sank when she realized the girl was leading her not to Regina’s home or the Mayor’s office, but to a certain dark, sleepy-looking Victorian. Mr. Gold’s house. Emma’s growing anger mingled with a vague sense of disappointment. Had she really thought better of him? Or was she just sad to see another shot at Regina slide away? 

But her personal feelings didn’t matter. This girl mattered, and bringing to justice anyone— _any_ one—who had hurt her: that mattered. She watched the girl sway to a stop at the bottom of Mr. Gold’s front steps, her chin lifting in an expectant tilt. Emma was impressed by her determination, but she was a civilian, and she’d helped more than enough. Emma reached out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, to turn her gently away. But before her fingers could connect, the girl sprang with surprising swiftness up the stairs, throwing open the front door with a single push. 

Swallowing a sigh, Emma followed her into the dark stillness of the house. The girl’s white hospital gown fluttered as she disappeared around a corner. Her bare feet were soft on the rugs that lined the floor. Bare feet. Emma hadn’t even stopped to get her shoes. This was nuts; they had to stop; Emma would come back later, properly…

Mr. Gold rose from the high-backed chair where he’d been sitting and regarded them, Emma in the doorway and the girl just inside it. With her long tangled hair and her white gown, she looked like a ghost from a Japanese horror film. Beneath the mask of Mr. Gold’s face, Emma thought she saw an inkling of very real fear. He stood straight-backed, supporting his weight on his cane, clutching the handle like his legs might at any moment go out from under him. And yet his voice remained relatively calm: “What is the meaning of this?” 

Emma stepped forward, intending to intervene, explain, but before she could, the girl rocked forward on her feet. “I’ve come to give you what you’re owed,” she said, mouth stretching into a crazed grin that reminded Emma a little too clearly of the white-celled walls she’d rescued her from. 

“Wait,” Emma said—and that was even before she noticed the knife. 

Because suddenly there was a knife in the girl’s hand. Emma had no idea where it had come from, although this being Mr. Gold’s house, there were knickknacks strewn everywhere—including, apparently, a huge knife with a scalloped edge. The girl raised it above her head and lunged forward; Emma reacted on instinct. Time seemed to slow as she grappled for the girl’s arm: odd details stood out as they passed through her field of vision. She saw the smile on the girl’s face, the curve of her lip almost soft. She saw the statuesque stillness with which Mr. Gold faced down this assault. She saw a word etched into the side of the blade: _Rumpelstiltskin_. Henry would like that, she thought. _Henry_. And then her hand closed over the hilt of the knife. 

It didn’t matter whether the girl made the thrust, or Mr. Gold stepped forward, or Emma tried her mightiest to wrench the blade away. What mattered was that Emma’s hand, and Emma’s hand alone, was on the knife hilt when it sank into Mr. Gold’s chest. 

Emma thought she heard the girl let out a gasp, but it was muffled by her own cry. Then, impossibly loud: Mr. Gold’s back as he hit the floor. Emma’s knees struck the wood painfully beside him. “No,” she said, and “Oh god,” and “Call an ambulance,” and other pointless, pointless things as Mr. Gold’s chest heaved and his purple shirt turned black. 

Suddenly the girl was kneeling beside her. “Pull the knife out,” she said, “and get out of the way.” 

“He’ll bleed out,” said Emma, stupidly. Then she started: Mr. Gold’s hand had closed coldly around her wrist. He tugged upward, weakly, staring up at her with a face draining slowly of color. Emma barely noticed she was still clutching the knife hilt until she followed through on this suggested movement and drew the blade out. 

Her body slumped backward, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. 

Vaguely she was aware of motion: the girl’s gown trailing across the floor as she leaned over Mr. Gold’s body. Emma felt dizzy, watching through hazy eyes as the girl lifted Mr. Gold’s head into her lap. She was cradling him so gently, stroking the hair away from his face. Emma could see his eyelashes fluttering as he reached for her: like butterfly wings, like the delicate tendrils of destiny and influence that dangled everywhere around her, waiting to be twisted and tangled and plucked…

The girl was saying something through her fall of tears, something about how true love’s kiss could break any curse. Blah blah blah. Emma felt a laugh start to burble up, but when she saw the girl lean down and actually press a desperate kiss to Mr. Gold’s bluing lips, she had to look away. Emotions rolled within her, and so much more: she could feel energy, cracking like sparks, churning beneath her skin. The once-dark room was filled with shining points of crackling golden light. 

Hers, all hers. Hers for the taking. 

“Now, now. Stay above it.” 

Mr. Gold was kneeling above her. Which was impossible: he was dead, she’d killed him. (She could kill him. _There_ was the throbbing thread of his life, hers to bend and twist and _snap_.) “There, now,” tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear (she could melt the flesh from his finger bones, spin him into dust), “there’s a good girl.” 

“Are you sure she’ll be able to handle it?” The girl. Bright blue eyes, the madness lifted from them as easily as the girl could lift off her borrowed coat. Manipulative bitch. Emma felt the anger spike and _fought_ , pushed it down, barely cognizant of what she was fighting for, and at the same time knowing it was her life, her own entire self. 

“As sure as I was that your kiss would bring me back from the brink,” said Gold. “Which is to say, not at all.” 

Then he said, “Ow,” theatrically, and rubbed his arm where the girl had hit him. 

“You’re leaving an awful lot to chance with your _plan_ ,” she said, sounding choked. (Emma could strangle her with invisible fingers, create vines out of the air and wrap them around her creamy white throat.) 

“Beastly of me, I know,” said Gold. “I…” Slight pause; and what a _world_ there was in that pause, a hundred paths to explore, a thousand deals to be struck. “I trusted you to play your part,” Gold told the girl, like it was some sort of concession, his tone dropping pathetically soft. “And I trust sweet Sheriff Swan here to be the good little Girl Scout I know her to be.” 

He looked at her, ordinary brown eyes searching over her face. She wanted to laugh and pluck them out like pearls. She wanted to cry and scream and twitch away. She sucked in a breath and bit down hard on her lip. The girl bent forward and took her hand. 

“Emma,” said Mr. Gold, spinning her name out like honey. “You can do this. I know you’re stubborn enough to do this. You can face down Regina, you can face down me: you can face this. Come on.” 

“Regina,” Emma breathed. She felt something cool and dark untwist inside her. “Yes, I can’t wait to see Regina’s face.” She giggled. 

“Smooth,” said the girl, shooting Gold a look halfway between exasperated and fond. She tightened her grip on Emma’s hand (Emma could swat her across the room like a fly), yet for some reason was strangely gentle, rubbing her fingers over Emma’s like she was trying to…?

Gold rolled his eyes, gave his head an extravagant shake. “Henry, then. Think about Henry. The look on your son’s face the next time he sees you.” 

Emma grinned. She could picture herself—a fingersnap, a gesture away from making it real—picture herself presenting a bruised and bloodied, a humiliated, defeated Regina to him, dragging her by her hair to sprawl at Henry’s feet. She’d never hurt Henry again, would she, never obstruct him, come between him and Emma. She could see his smile…

But the Henry in her mind wasn’t smiling. His face looked slack, his eyes downcast, the way he’d looked when he told her that good always loses. Right. Which was why this was just what she needed. She’d been wrong then, again and again she’d let herself be tricked, but now she could see through it all and nothing could stand in her way. 

She started to stand. The girl’s fingers squeezed. Gold put a hand on her shoulder. “No,” he said, fierce—what a pathetic, weak little man, kneeling awkwardly on his bad leg, judging her in his torn and bloodied shirt. Emma shrugged him off and started for the door. 

But, “No,” he repeated, hobbling after her. “You’re stronger than this. I know you, Emma Swan, and you’re no craven. You never take the easy way out.” 

Emma laughed and twirled to face them. “The first of many things,” she said, “that are going to change around here.” 

“No.” 

She turned her head: the girl this time. Standing up in her muddy gown and pushing the tangled hair away from her face. Such an ugly little thing. 

“Not like this,” she said earnestly, voice cracking. “This is your chance. Your chance to be brave.” She touched Gold’s arm, then let him go, stepped between them. “I know you can do it. You saved me. You’re a hero.” 

_Hero_. What a ridiculous word. There were no heroes. Just winners and losers. The powerful and the powerless. And she, she was ( _good_ ) powerful. 

Wait, no. She was ( _Henry smiling up at her, so much trust_ ) powerful. She was ( _Mary Margaret grinning from across the kitchen counter, opening her home, taking her in_ ) in control. She was ( _Ashley cradling her baby in her arms, Michael Tillman’s face when he saw his children, the girl in the muddy gown stepping out into the sunlight_ ) twisting the knife in her green-gold hands, contemplating slashing out with it, cutting down the girl and the man and all her doubts. Her eyes caught on the letters etched bold and black into the blade: _Emma Swan_.

She fell back with a gasp, the knife falling from her hand and clattering to the floor. Mr. Gold produced a (bloodstained) handkerchief and stooped down to pick it up. He held it delicately, offering it up to her, hilt first. “Careful now,” he said, “you’ll want to keep that somewhere safe.” 

Emma hated the way her hand shook as she reached for the blade, hated just as much the steadiness that returned as soon as she closed her fingers around it. “What did you do to me?” 

Mr. Gold smiled. It was a sly, triumphant smile, ruined slightly by the lines of fatigue etched ‘round his eyes, and the quick, covert survey he paused to make of the girl. Then, seemingly reassured that she was still beside him, “I gave you a gift,” he said. 

Emma frowned; her mind was still filled with a thousand, a thousand-thousand ways that she could unmake him. 

Gold held up a hand as if to stave off these thoughts. “A true gift. My first freebie.” He grinned at her with his twisting lip. “Your accounts are yours to settle elsewhere.” 

“No,” said Emma. “What did you _do_ to me?” A part of her brain still wanted to insist that she’d been drugged, that the shimmering, silver-shine still clinging to her skin was the result of a powerful hallucinogen and one too many _Twilight_ jokes at her expense. However, the chair she dragged across the floor with a flick of her finger and forced Gold into with a gesture kind of belied that theory. 

The fact that the girl she’d rescued—supposedly from Gold—reacted to this display of impossible power simply by walking around the back of the chair and settling herself beside him in the seat, half in his lap, belied—if not full-on destroyed—several others. 

“It’s simple, really,” said Gold, nearly hiding his sharp intake of breath, the not entirely covert urge to squirm. His finger darted toward her like a snake’s tongue, tasting the air. “I can’t use it here, but _you_ can. And you can control it.” His gaze raked over her. “Mostly.” 

Emma chose to ignore that last part for now. “Use what? Control what?” she demanded. 

Gold’s eyebrow lifted. “You know.” 

Emma folded her arms. “I want to hear you say it.” 

Gold chuckled. “But it would be so much more dramatic to hear it from you.” 

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” said the girl with an exasperated roll of her shoulders. “Magic. He gave you his magic.” She turned in the chair, her legs drifting further off the floor. Her fingers skated along Mr. Gold’s chin, turning his face up to hers. “And I gave him his life.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, neither her eyes not her attention on Emma anymore. “The deal is done.” 

For a second Emma thought they were going to sit there, nose to nose, mouth to mouth, and simply breathe into each other’s faces; she was almost relieved when their lips finally met. Then it was as if the kiss was as necessary to them as the air had been. They kissed like every second of contact had been paid for by years of the lack; judging by the length of the PDA, Emma thought, it had been a whole heck of lot of them. She was contemplating conjuring up a bucket of water and dumping it over the chair when they finally drew apart. The girl was smiling like she’d just single-handedly unearthed the eighth wonder of the world, even as she gazed into the wary shadow that still lurked (lovely, exploitable) in Mr. Gold’s eyes. Emma caught the way his fingers darted up to touch his swollen lips, and she wasn’t going to forget it. 

“Should I come back later?” she asked. 

The girl looked tempted to say yes, but Mr. Gold touched her wrist, then forced his version of a businesslike expression onto his face, flashing his teeth. He drew himself back to his feet. “No, no time like the present, is there?” 

Emma narrowed her eyes at him; the chair made a harsh scraping sound as it followed him a few inches across the floor. The girl sprung neatly out of the way. 

Emma ignored the look of amusement on her face. “And what’s the plan for the present? Tell me. I’d _love_ to hear what you think you can make me do.” 

Mr. Gold snorted, then bent his head to her, a mocking yet not wholly insincere bow. “There’s no question of that, Sheriff Swan. I merely want to show you something.” He gestured extravagantly toward the front door. 

“And what’s that?” asked Emma, carefully tucking her knife into the waistband of her jeans. 

The girl surprised her by twining her arm through the crook of Mr. Gold’s elbow. She smiled at them both, beautiful and hopeful in her rags. 

“A whole new world,” she said, and led the way out into the sun. 


End file.
